Late Afternoon, April 11th, 1879. The Comanche Encampment. Good Friday.
quote:
'When?' said the moon to the stars in the sky
'Soon' said the wind that followed them all
'Who?' said the cloud that started to cry
'Me' said the rider as dry as a bone
'How?' said the sun that melted the ground
and 'Why?' said the river that refused to run
and 'Where?' said the thunder without a sound
'Here' said the rider and took up his gun
'No' said the stars to the moon in the sky
'No' said the trees that started to moan
'No' said the dust that blunted its eyes
'Yes' said the rider as white as a bone
'No' said the moon that rose from his sleep
'No' said the cry of the dying sun
'No' said the planet as it started to weep
'Yes' said the rider and laid down his gun
Nick Cave, The Rider #2
Three days. It had to be three days that August Colby had been trapped here. He'd walked right into it, really. He'd followed the trail from the spot where the dead man had come back to life. But when the trail split, he'd followed the wrong tracks.
His snooping had lead him several miles from town. White tipis sprung from the dusty earth, over a score and a half of them. And then there were the horses. A whole herd of horses grazing about the camp.
The other thing he could make out are the poles. There were three of them spread around the perimeter of the camp, and each had a corpse lashed to it. The bodies looked like they had been there a while--crows had taken perch there, and occasionally pecked flesh from dead bones.
They'd come up behind him swiftly, no warning whatsoever. He'd been knocked over the head, and when he came to he found he'd been bound and shoved into a wooden pen, exposed to the elements. His on;y other companion had been an old Chinese man who called himself Zhang, who only wanted to talk peace. For the old man's efforts he was beaten and whipped. The second day after August was captured, the Comanche had grabbed the poor old Chinaman and dragged him out of the camp. When they returned, he was not among them.
The Comanche were angry and ill-tempered. Every one of them looked at him with scorn, and a few even spit on him. The chieftain of this band, an old shaman they called Pale Moon, wouldn't even look at him, leaving him to the care of two indians named Ghost Wolf and Charging Bear.
Ghost Wolf was a decent sort. Though he, like all his fellows, harbored a deep distrust of August, there seemed to be less malice in his voice when he spoke to the boy, as if he were more disgusted by the white man's actions as a whole than angry at August as an individual.
Charging Bear, on the other hand...
The Indian calling himself Charging Bear resembled the man August had met in town, being big, broad shouldered and clad in an old CSA army uniform. That was about where the similarities ended.
This Charging Bear was a complete psychopath. He never seemed happier than when he was threatening to cut off August's genitals and feed them to him, and he always had that big rusty bowie knife close at hand. The other Comanche avoided him, and Ghost Wolf had told August flat out that he thought Charging Bear was sick in the head. August had gathered that Charging Bear was an Apache, and not a normal member of this band, but was kept around because he was excellent at "what he did." August didn't really care to find out "what he did"; he was certain it wasn't pleasant.
But it had been three days now, and August still didn't know what they wanted with him. They just...kept him around.
And then, on the third day, they brought a new prisoner into the camp. He'd been sequestered for the better part of two hours, but now they were being locked in the same pen together. The fellow looked like a dude from Back East, far out of his element. His nice duds had been stained and ill-treated, and he squinted at the world in the manner of one who is used to having spectacles.
"Oh dear," he mutters to himself, and squints at August.
"Is there someone else there?"